


Caramel Macchiato

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A realistic depiction of running a coffeeshop, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Angst and Smut, Baking, Blowjobs, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Fox will write an au for every ridiculous job, M/M, PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, YES it's a godsdamned coffeeshop au!, as per usual, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You ate my bees," Bucky says. Because his own tongue fucking hates him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "You ate my bees"

**Author's Note:**

> Despite pressure from sources who will remain unnamed, I have not named this 'Stucky Toffee Cake"  
> You know who you are.
> 
> So behold! My contribution to the Stucky Big Bang 2016!  
> Ten thousand thank yous go out to the beautiful people of the Bucky Rogers Skype Chat. Y'all are rotten enablers. I'm lucky to know you guys.
> 
> Queen: For kindness, wisdom, moral support and an inexhaustible supply of porn  
> Jinlinli: Guardian of the plot bunnies and source of that rare commodity, common sense.  
> Rohkeutta: for blueberry envy and moral support.  
> CD: because he'll sulk if he doesn't get a mention

At 5am James “Bucky” Barnes is woken by his alarm clock. He knocks it to the floor, swears under his breath and stumbles to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth in an attempt to wake himself up then throws on a pair of sweatpants and a hooded top. He makes his way downstairs to the coffee shop below, quickly checks that the dough in the breadmaker is doing its thing, takes butter and eggs out of the fridge for later and slips out the back door into the alley alongside the building.  
The street is silent and dark, the low sodium glow of streetlights puncturing the gloom. He starts running, following the familiar route of back streets and industrial estates where he’s least likely to encounter anyone else. He runs through his daily affirmations, runs through his bad dreams and worse memories and the slow bleed of light into darkness. It is a comfort to see the night sky bleed away into navy, into cerulean, the clouds stained peach and pink by the sunrise. Self Maintenance, Dr Banner calls it. Barnes is less keen on the term, it makes him feel like an old jalopy that needs kicking before it can get going. It’s not too far from the truth.

He heads back to his apartment, feeling a little more energised for running. He showers and shaves, pulls on jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt that obscures most of the Fucking Arm. Stomps downstairs to the coffeeshop, pulling his straggly hair into a bun and keeping it in place with an elastic band.  
He turns on the radio, puts on an apron, washes his hands and wipes down the kitchen surfaces with sterilant. Empties the dough out of the breadmaker and divides it into even portions, giving them a quick knead and arranging on a floured baking tray. He shoves the tray into the proving draw under the oven and washes his hands again.  
All he ever does is wash his fucking hands, even though the left one he could probably just spray with sterilant and be done with. He pulls ingredients and equipment out of cupboards and makes up a batch of scones, losing himself in the routine. He divides the dough into two, one savoury that he adds shredded cheese and finely chopped chives to, one sweet with glace cherries. He rolls the savoury scone in a circle, lays on a baking tray and lightly scores into eight wedges. The sweet scone gets rolled out and stamped into large discs with a cutter. He arranges the circles on a baking tray, brushes them with milk and puts them both in the chiller.  
He cleans down the surfaces, sterilises everything and starts making the soup. He pulls yesterday's prepped vegetables out of the chiller and sweats leeks and garlic in butter, adding chopped carrots, butter beans and vegetable stock. He covers the pan tightly and leaves it to simmer as he preheats the oven. He fetches the days cakes from the chiller, baked and iced yesterday afternoon. They’re getting low on the chocolate cake, but he’ll work on that later.  
He fetches the Fucking Stupid Book from the shelf and fills out the traceability report for everything he’s made so far that morning. He writes down the date, product codes for every ingredient used and where the ingredient was sourced. Flour is easy enough, the code stamped on the side of the bag. Loose carrots tend to not have codes printed on them. Also, no one has ever died from eating a fuckin’ carrot. Bucky is pretty sure that even if you sharpened a carrot to a point and stabbed the Environmental Health Officer with it, it still wouldn’t kill them. He’d be willing to try, though. He washes his hands for the thousandth time, and takes off his apron. He balls it up and throws it on the counter, stretching as he heads out into front of the shop. 

He gives the floor a quick clean with more fuckin’ sterilant, wipes down the counters and empties the dishwasher. He wipes down the Bastard Coffee Machine and checks the stocks of crockery and paper cups. He sets out jugs and portafilters and the knockbox where the spent coffee grounds are stored. He sets up the filter coffee maker and the room is filled with its hiss and gurgle. A strong punch of percolating coffee fills his senses and he lets himself relax a little.  
He goes back into the kitchen, puts his apron on again and washes his hands a-fuckin’-gain. He puts the bread rolls in the oven and knocks up a batch of muffins. He splits the batter, adding sugar and chocolate chips to one and blueberries and stevia to the other. He pulls the rolls out of the oven and onto a cooling rack and puts the scones in to bake. He scrapes the muffin batter into paper cases and writes it up in the Fucking Stupid Book. He transfers the soup to one of the two cauldrons set up on the counter next to the panini press. He takes the remains of yesterday's soup out of the chiller and pours it into the second cauldron and sets the temperatures for them. Out come the scones, in goes the muffins. He hears a knocking at the door, glances up at the clock. 7am, so that’ll be Natasha,

Natasha Romanov works the front of the shop most days, when she’s not gallivanting around Europe. If she’s decides to take a month off in Lagos doing whatever the fuck people do in Lagos, she’ll send her friend Maria in to cover for her. Bucky doesn’t care who’s on the shop floor as long as it isn’t him. He lurks behind the counter dispensing coffee or out in the kitchen, as far as he can get from the fuckin’ people.  
He unlocks the front door and Natasha comes breezing in. He quickly locks up again in case some asshole who can’t wait half an hour decides to push their way in. Natasha is small, lithe and sexy in a slightly terrifying way. She is good with customers, can handle the assholes and on occasion has made people cry, which Bucky kind of loves her for. If he swung that way, he would probably swing towards her. Even if it would be traumatising and emasculating. She turns to him.  
“You feeling up for a good morning hug?” She asks cheerfully.  
Some days he is. Most days he’s not. She doesn’t take the bad days personally. He’s pretty sure it’s her way of assessing his mental state for the day, and handles customers accordingly. He doesn’t pay her enough, he thinks. It’s a pretty good morning so far, so he nods. She wraps her arms around him and gives him a gentle squeeze. He pats her shoulder awkwardly.  
“Alright, that's enough,” he grumbles. She laughs and heads over to the counter, sliding out of her jacket and tucking it under the counter. She twists her red curls into an elegant chignon, pinning it in place with a pencil and puts on her apron. She tucks a notepad and pen into the apron pocket and pours them both a cup of coffee. Bucky slips back into the kitchen and takes the muffins out of the oven. A couple have caught at the edge, so he takes them out to Natasha and they have an impromptu breakfast of coffee and singed muffins while he fills out the daily specials on the blackboard. No matter how he writes out the soup of the day, the majority of customers will look straight past the black and white sign in front of their faces and ask what soup there is anyway.  
Natasha takes chairs off of tables and sorts out the daily papers while Bucky stocks the display cabinet with the cakes and scones, setting out the individual packets of butter and single servings of jam.

At 6.50am someone starts hammering on the door, pressing their faces to the glass and scowling. Bucky feels his shoulders tense up. Natasha pats him on the back.  
“Once more unto the breach,” she says cheerfully. He grumbles in response and slopes back into the kitchen to clear up. Her cheerful ‘Welcome to Barnes!’ to the impatient asshole follows him.  
He sets out his ingredients and chopping boards, making a small selection of sandwiches, tucking them into cardboard and cellophane packaging and taking them out to the display cabinet. Then he loads up the dishwasher with the morning's baking trays and cookware and wipes down the surfaces. He skulks around for a while until he gets pissed off with himself for hiding out back and returns to the shop floor.  
Romanov can work the Bastard Coffee Machine fine, but coffee making tends to fall to Bucky. Partly because he is the only one allowed to kick it when it starts acting up and partly because if it starts spraying jets of superheated steam at him the worst it will do is clean the gunk out between the plates of the Fucking Arm. He flexes the metal fingers absently. Thousands of dollars worth of tech just so he can take trays out of a hot oven without looking for a dishcloth first. The guilty conscience of the super-rich.  
Of course the downside to working the Bastard Coffee Machine is having to deal with people. People and their ridiculously, over-complicated sugar and foam monstrosities that pass for coffee these days. When he was a kid coffee came with two f’s and two e’s, maybe you’d get a cappuccino or a hot chocolate made with steamed milk if you felt like something fancy. But now it was all flat whites and cold pressings and anto-cocking-ccino.  
He grits his teeth, squares his shoulders and tries to rid his mind of murderous thoughts.

The morning passes quickly. Stressed businessmen in overpriced suits and irate office workers queue up for their coffees to go. Then the moms in yoga pants and hungover students filter in, settling themselves at the tables and comfortable sofas scattered around the shop and taking their time over their bullshit-cino’s and muffins.  
While Bucky handles the takeaways Natasha does table service, which minimises Bucky’s contact with women in yoga pants. She is calm and efficient, murmuring orders in his ear as she collects oversized cups of foam dusted with cocoa.  
He really doesn’t pay her enough.  
By 11am things have quietened down and Bucky heads back to the kitchen to wash and sterilise every last thing on the damned planet and set up for the lunchtime crowd. He doesn’t have an extensive lunchtime menu, just soup (two varieties) sandwiches (3 varieties), a panini and a calzone. The sandwiches and cake are out front and just require dumping on a plate and handing over. Out back he has a stack of plates and bowls for doling out hot soup and grilled bread. The calzone are individually wrapped and just need throwing in the panini press for a few minutes. The panini he makes to order, the trays of bread, shredded cheese, sliced ham and tomato arranged neatly on the counter in front of him with the tub of butter and jar of pesto. He makes everything himself from scratch because a, it doesn’t taste like crap and b, he has no fucking life anyway.  
He pauses for to run through Dr Banners deep breathing exercises, then goes back to work.

The lunchtime rush usually starts at 11.30 and ends some point after the last moment of recorded time. Bucky is run off his feet grilling bread products and doling out soup and not losing his mind when customers start making ridiculous demands (what the fuck is a dry cappuccino anyway? It’s a drink, it’s by definition wet) when he notices the table of 5 college kids. Three guys, two girls, all well dressed and full of arrogance.  
James Barnes was a damn good soldier, or at least he was until a close encounter with an IED that left a chunk of his arm and most of his sanity on a desert road in the Middle East. He was a good soldier mostly due to his ability to spot trouble a mile off. And those kids looked like trouble They had been running Natasha ragged and now were silent and twitchy, glancing repeatedly between the door and the counter. He caught Natashas eye and twitched his head. She finished collecting up plates and sauntered over.  
“You’ve got that Sergeant Barnes look, what’s up?”  
He keeps his head down, making no attempt to look at the table of kids.  
“Five top by the door. Looks like they’re gonna dash”. He mutters quietly.  
“Those little shits?” She hisses.  
She gives no indication that she’s on to them, sets down the plates on the far side of the counter and continues her rounds.  
“Give ‘em hell,” he murmurs softly, collecting the dishes and stacking them for washing later. He settles himself against the counter and watches her make her way around the room, checking in with customers and working her way over to the table of five. She grabs a spare chair from a nearby and draws it up to their table, throwing herself down and flashing them a brilliant smile.  
“Hey, guys! I’ve been thinking, and you know what? You should totally run out on this meal!”  
They stare at her blankly, like rabbits frozen in the headlights.  
“Yeah. Just make a run for it without paying, y’know?” She add brightly.  
They stare at each other. One of the girls lets out a shrill, panicked giggle.  
“Don’t go thinking the door is the easiest way to go, you’re gonna have to go climb out the bathroom window. The owner over there,” she tips her head to Bucky, who is resting one elbow on the table and giving them his best fuck-you stare, “Is pretty fast, I’ve seen him vault over that counter and tackle people in the street. I mean, you’d think getting his whole fucking arm blown off in Afghanistan would slow him down. Yeah, it’s a prosthetic, but anyway, fuck him”. She waves her arm dismissively and leans closer.  
“Me, I’ve been running my ass off all morning for minimum wage. But I should have gotten a proper job, y’know? Because obviously we chose to live like this, we’re not just trying to scrape by with the little we’ve got”. She shrugs. “And even if we were, it’s not your fucking problem. So I’m gonna be running around for a while fetching a carrying for pissy little shits and won’t notice you skipping out on five perfectly decent meals that I’ll have to cover the cost of”. She reaches over and plucks at the nearest guys brand new leather jacket. “Because you clearly are struggling with limited resources”.  
She sits back and gives them another bright smile.  
“So this has been super fun, guys. But I gotta get back to work”. She gets up, puts the chair back and returns to collecting plates and cups. The kids shift and mutter amongst themselves. One of them gets out his phone. She sets her dirty dishes on the counter, blocking their view of Bucky so he can flash her a grin.  
“I’d never make you pay for customer meals,” he murmurs. She shushes him and carries on working. Bucky makes himself comfortable and continues to give the kids his finest Sergeant Barnes is Done With Your Shit glower. After ten minutes the door bursts open and harried looking man in his fifties stomps over to the counter.  
“How much do I owe you for the five imbeciles,” he snaps.  
Romanov gives him a number and he counts out notes, adding a few extra, slapping them on the counter.  
“You got kids?” He asks Natasha. She shakes her head. “Good. Don’t”. He snaps, turning away and herding the silent kids out of the door. Bucky manages to hold off laughing until the door closes behind them. Natasha doesn’t. A few of the regular customers join in and give Natasha a round of applause. She bows graciously, then starts to ring up the total on the till. Bucky leans over and cancels the transaction.  
“Keep it,” he mutters, avoiding her eye. She doesn’t argue with him, which means she’ll probably try and put it into the system later when he’s not looking, but at least she’ll keep hold of the tip.

Things settle down after lunch and Bucky covers for Natasha while she eats a sandwich. When she’s finished he goes back into the kitchen and unloads the dishwasher, puts everything away and loads up the lunchtime dishes. While the machine starts it cycle he rummages through the cupboards looking for inspiration for his next cake.  
“Hey, Romanov. What chocolate cake should I make?” He shouts. There is a moments silence before she shouts back.  
“Snickers!”  
Damn. Snickers cake is one of his best recipes, but customers will bitch about peanuts. Ugh. Fuck it. He washes his hands and pre heats the oven. He gets out his cookware and box of ingredients and starts weighing and mixing. Truth is, Bucky loves cooking and coming up with recipes, always has done. When he was a kid and it was his Ma in this kitchen he’d be in the corner messing around with scraps of pastry and bread dough. She taught him to cream butter and sugar and make meringues in this kitchen, hovered over him when he made his first batch of muffins and watched as he gained confidence. His tarte au citron and frasier cakes were put in pride of place in the display cabinet and he would watch nervously as slice after slice was purchased, and plates came back damn near licked clean.  
He scrapes the cake batter into two baking tins and puts them in the oven.  
Dr Banner says that feeding people is a way of reconnecting to the human race, a nurturing act. He also says that it is a non-combative method of exerting control on your current life situation.  
Dr Banner talks a lot of shit.  
James Barnes is good at two things, shooting people from really fucking far away and baking. And since he can’t do the first thing anymore, he does the second one.  
He makes up some chocolate buttercream, covers the bowl and puts it in the chiller. He wipes down the surfaces, sterilizes everything in sight and writes down what he’s made in the Fucking Stupid Book.

“Hey Barnes, your boyfriend’s here,” Natasha calls out.  
He swears and drops the mug he was holding. It bounces on floor and disappears under the counter.  
“Fuck you,” he hisses to Natasha, who sniggers at him. He ducks under the counter to retrieve it and briefly considers not coming out again.  
Bucky doesn’t have a boyfriend. James, before the desert and the bomb and the surgeries, had no shortage of boyfriends. He had been young, pretty and overconfident. And stupid. Really fuckin’ stupid. Now if he sees a guy he likes the look of, he can barely manage a civil greeting to them. And he really likes Steve.  
Steve had started coming into the coffee shop late last year when the weather had turned colder. He was an artist, forever carrying around his big sketchbook and innumerable pencils and pens. He would set himself in the corner by the window where the natural light was best and spend the afternoon drawing. His coat pockets and sleeves had been carefully darned, his sweater frayed at the collar and cuffs. He drank filter coffee, not americanos or lattes, just plain black coffee. And yeah, he had pretty blue eyes and blonde hair and wasn’t a hardship to look at either. But he wasn’t rude, and he cleaned up after himself and he never stared at the Fucking Arm or asked questions about it. The first time he had showed up Bucky had watched him drawing away for the best part of an hour before grabbing a triple chocolate muffin and the filter jug of coffee and stomping over to his table.  
“Refill?” He’d barked out. Steve had jumped, then held up his cup, offering a soft thank you in return.  
“This fell on the floor, so I guess you can have it,” he muttered, dropping the muffin on the table. Real smooth, Barnes. Steve had insisted on paying for it anyway, and Bucky may have panicked a little and shouted at him to just eat the fuckin’ thing, and then spent the rest of the afternoon hiding in the kitchen. He’d figured that would be the last he’d see of Cute Art Guy, but he appeared the following afternoon with his sketchbook under his arm and his pockets stuffed with pencils. He’d ordered his boring coffee and gone to his table in the corner and started sketching. After an hour Bucky had sloped over to him with the coffee jug and a slice of raspberry ripple cake.  
“This is outta date but it probably won’t kill you,” he’d muttered, refilling his coffee cup. Steve hadn’t put up a fight, instead he quietly thanked him and Bucky beat a hasty retreat before he said anything stupid. Like ask him out for dinner or some other stupid normal shit.

It had become a daily routine, Steve spent his afternoon drawing, and Bucky would bring him food and a weak excuse for not having to pay for it. Natasha found it hilarious, because she was a terrible person who deserved a pay cut. But she did find out his name was Steve, he was an artist who lived locally and the heating sucked in his apartment. Bucky expected him to stop showing up as soon as the weather warmed up, but it had been six months now and he still showed up around three o’clock with his sketchbook tucked under his arm and a small smile.  
Bucky pokes his head over the counter and sees Steve setting his sketchbook down at his table. And it was his table now. Bucky gets twitchy if anyone else sits there after 2.30pm and has been known to stalk over and bark ‘Move it’ to anyone who tries in his best Don’t Fuck With Sergeant Barnes voice. He also sees a customer waiting at the counter and Natasha is already serving someone. Damnit. A customer wearing an ethnic skirt and an excess of beads. Oh great. He stands up, setting the rescued mug to one side and resigns himself to his fate.  
“Do you have almond milk?” Hippy girl asks.  
He briefly considers saying that they couldn’t get a milking stool small enough. Or telling her to get bent.  
“We have soy milk,” he replies and braces himself for a lecture on GM products.  
Steve comes up to the counter and gives him a sympathetic wince as Hippy Girl rants about tomatoes that are genetically closer to cows, and how she has been a vegan for three weeks and it has changed her life. Bucky is seriously contemplating hacking off his remaining arm when she finishes with an order for green tea and asks him what cakes they have. He waves at the display cabinet.  
“The marmalade cake is vegan and sugar free,” he offers.  
She peers into the cabinet while he fixes her green tea.  
“What about the chocolate one?” She asks finally.  
It’s one of his favourites, chocolate honey with a dark chocolate glaze and tiny marzipan bees. He loves making those bees, little balls of golden marzipan with chocolate glaze stripes and slivered almonds for wings. It’s popular too, though half the customers ask for a box to take their bees home in because they can’t bear to eat them.  
“That’s chocolate honey cake. I didn’t think vegans ate honey,” he says, his heart sinking. “It also has butter and eggs in it”. The cake has an obscene amount of butter in it.  
“I’ll take that one,” Hippy girl decides.  
“But it’s not… Fine, yeah. One slice of cake”.  
He plates up the cake and passes it over. He takes her money and watches her sit down on one of the squashy couches. He wonders why they bother with table service when people just do their own damn thing regardless.  
He fetches a mug and fills it with filter coffee, pushing it over the counter towards Steve.  
“That was… interesting,” Steve says, accepting his drink.  
“You have no fucking idea,” Bucky mutters.  
Steve snorts and gives him a little smile.  
“You taking my money today?” He asks.  
“Piss off, your money’s no good here,” Bucky responds, flapping a hand at him and disappearing into the kitchen before he says something unforgivable. Steve laughs and returns to his table. 

Bucky tests his cakes and pulls them out of the oven, easing them out of their tins and setting them on cooling racks. He unloads the dishwasher, refills it and puts the dishes away. He sterilises everything in sight and starts prep for tomorrow. He chops onions and carrots, seals them up in tupperware and stacks them in the chiller. He weighs out everything for a batch of pizza dough and puts it in the breadmaker, programming in the dough setting and pressing start. Then cleans up and writes everything down in the Fucking Stupid Book. The cakes still haven’t cooled enough to ice, so he washes his hands and goes back out to the front.  
It’s pretty quiet so Natasha is drinking a cup of coffee and reading a magazine at one of the tables. She winks at him as he picks up the coffee jug and puts the last slice of chocolate honey cake on a plate. He sidles over to Steve’s table and drops the plate in front of him. He doesn’t jump so much these days, but glances up and smiles.  
“Hey, Bucky. What terrible thing happened to this one, then?” He asks with a smile.  
Bucky hates that smile, it makes the earth seem warmer. Bucky loves that smile.  
“Nothin’. I just…” He scratches behind his ear. “It’s good. You should try it”.  
He refills Steve’s coffee cup without asking. He doesn’t need to ask.  
“I like the bees,” Steve says, plucking one from the sticky glaze. “Did you make them?”  
Bucky grunts and lifts the coffee jug in a salute before returning to the counter.  
“Shut up,” he mutters to Natasha. She smirks at him but keeps her mouth shut.  
He grabs a sandwich from the display counter and joins her at her table. She kicks his ankle until he sighs, gets up and stomps back over to where Steve is. He has finished his slice of cake. he even ate the bees.  
“You ate my bees,” Bucky says. Because his own tongue fucking hates him.  
Steve looks up and grins at him.  
“Mind if I sit?” he mutters, keeping his eyes on the empty plate.  
“Sure. Natasha giving you grief?” Steve’s eyes sparkle with mischief. It’s a good look on him.  
“I should fire her,” he mutters, unwrapping his sandwich.  
They sit in silence for a few minutes, but for Bucky chewing on egg salad and the scratch of pencil on paper. Bucky has forgotten how to do small talk. His conversational skills are limited to his weekly appointment with Dr Banner and dealing with customers, so he can basically choke out painful and traumatic memories of being in a war zone or ask what name he should write on a take-out cup of coffee. Steve is content to sit in silence, and never seems uncomfortable or embarrassed by his presence. He has a knack for hearing the larger questions in the single words Bucky will snap out at him. Bucky finishes his sandwich and nods at his sketchbook.  
“Work?’  
Steve glances down at the piece he is cleaning up. A monkey on a unicycle wearing a suit. The monkey looks harassed, wobbling on his perch, his tie askew.  
“Yeah, illustrating an article on…” He pauses and frowns. “Performance anxiety in the workplace? The death of the individual in…” He trails off. “I don’t remember. The editor wanted a monkey on a unicycle”. He shrugs.  
“You do commissions?” Bucky fiddles with his sandwich wrapper.  
“Yeah. Pays the bills”.  
Bucky frowns. He worries about Steve with his shabby clothes and tired eyes. But the guy has a stubborn streak a mile wide and it's hard enough getting him to accept a fuckin’ slice of cake. Bucky knows stubborn and proud too well, knows that if he pushes too hard he’ll get pushed right back.  
“You ever do menu’s?”  
Steve pauses, glances over at Bucky, who is quietly turning his sandwich wrapper into mayonnaise streaked confetti.  
“I could work up a few ideas, if you like?”  
Steve looks over at Bucky, expecting him to say something about designs, or prices, but he just snatches up the plate and handful of shredded wrapper, hesitates for a moment, nods and scarpers to the kitchen.

Bucky spends a good ten minutes on deep breathing exercises. He counts five things he can see out loud. When he’s reasonably sure his head isn’t going to explode he fetches the buttercream he made earlier from the chiller along with the jar of dulce de leche and starts decorating his chocolate cake. He spreads a thick layer of dulce de leche on top of the first cake and fills a piping bag with buttercream. He pipes buttercream on top of the caramel in loose rosettes and carefully places the second cake on top of the first, checks that it’s level and decorates the top with a circle of swirls. He steps back and eyes the cake critically, shakes his head. He fetches a palette knife and a jug of hot water. He dumps the rest of the buttercream on the cake, spreading it evenly around the sides and over the top. Then he wipes off the palette knife and dips it in the hot water, running it over the buttercream until he has neat edges and a smooth, glossy finish. He finishes it with a scattering of crushed peanut brittle. Satisfied, he puts it in the chiller to set.  
He feels calmer.  
He washes his hands and empties the dough from the breadmaker onto a floured counter. He fetches cheese, pesto and sundried tomatoes from the chiller and makes up a batch of calzones. He arranges them on a baking sheet, covers them in oiled clingfilm and puts them in the chiller. He puts ingredients for tomorrow's rolls in the breadmaker and sets the timer. He cleans everything up and writes it all down in the Fucking Stupid Book. He washes his hands and slips out to the front of house. 

The last hour is usually pretty quiet. There are a couple of students occupying the sofas and young professionals, their tables spread with papers and post it notes. Steve is still in his corner, working on his sketches. Natasha has removed her apron and is pulling on her jacket. She unfastens her hair and shakes it out, red curls cascading over her shoulders.  
“See you monday, Sarge,” she says cheerfully. Bucky snorts and waves her off.  
One by one, customers leave, and Bucky starts cleaning up. He restocks shelves and makes up a grocery list for the morning. Five minutes before closing Steve brings his empty coffee cup to the counter. He pulls a sheet out from his sketchpad and places it in front of Bucky.  
“If you’re serious about the menu, I came up with a few ideas,” he says softly.  
Bucky stops cleaning the Bastard Coffee Machine and wipes his hands. he picks up the sheet of sketches like it's a rare artifact. Steve has come up with three different designs, one sickeningly cute with stylised coffee cups and curls of steam, one irritatingly hip in a butcher's paper and typewriter font kind of way, the third design is unexpectedly Pop Art with a Warhol style coffee label motif.  
“Did you just do these?” He gasps.  
Steve blushes and nods.  
“You like ‘em?” He asks quietly.  
Bucky points to the typewriter font.  
“This I hate,” he snaps, then starts to mutter an apology but Steve sniggers.  
“Yeah, it’s terrible isn’t it?”  
“I like the Lichtenstein, but the colours are too bold,” he glances at Steve’s surprised expression. “Yeah, I know Pop Art. Fuck off”.  
Steve sniggers again.  
“Red, white and blue a bit much?” He takes back the sheet and studies the design. “I could work it in a different palette, maybe coffee colours?” He glances at Bucky. “Or black and white with an accent colour? Maybe red?”  
“Yeah, that sounds good,” he says softly.  
Steve tucks the sketches back into his sketchbook.  
“Okay, give me a week or so to make something. You want the set up the same as your current menu?”  
Bucky shrugs. The current menu had been knocked out in twenty minutes on Natasha's computer. fifteen of those minutes had been spent arguing about clipart.  
“Up to you, Stevie”.  
Steve flashes him a bright smile.  
“Okay. See you later”.  
Bucky leans on the counter and watches him walk away, then realises if Steve stops and glances around he’ll basically see Bucky leering at him, so quickly returns to cleaning the Bastard Coffee Machine. 

At 6pm he locks the doors and draws the blinds. He wraps up the cakes and puts them in the chiller. The last few scones and sandwiches he puts in a bag and sets to one side, cleans down the Coffee Maker and puts a last load in the dishwasher. He wipes down the tables and counters and cleans the toilet. He gets out the cleaning folder and fills it in for the day, signing and dating it. He checks that everything in the kitchen is cleared away, checks the temperature in the chiller and notes it down. He sweeps and mops the floor, empties the bins and takes them out to the dumpster out back. Finally he pulls the elastic band out of his hair, scratching his scalp and running his fingers through his shaggy brown mane. He slips on his jacket and turns off the lights, grabs the bag of sandwiches and heads out onto the street. He locks up and walks over to the park.  
It takes him a couple of minutes to find Reggie, who has made himself comfortable on a park bench. Reggie looks anywhere between twenty and fifty, shapeless in his layers of clothes and sleeping bag. From the way he twitches and the stuff he occasionally comes out with, Bucky’s pretty sure Reggie is a vet. He doesn’t ask, though, and Reggie doesn’t tell him. He sits down on the bench and holds out the bag.  
“Hey, Reggie”.  
“Bucky! Wha’ we go’ tuhday?” Reggie grins. Bucky is never sure if he’s drunk or traumatised. Bucky doesn’t care either way.  
“Sandwiches,” Bucky is pretty sure that this is Reggies only meal of the day, though unlike stubborn artists he’s much easier to feed. “Cherry scones”.  
“Aw, yea!” Reggie pulls out a scone and shoves it into his mouth in one go. He coughs and Bucky pats him on the back.  
“Don’t choke on my cooking, it’s bad for business,” he mutters.  
Reggie swallows and crams half a sandwich down too. Bucky watches him eat. He’s met a lot of homeless vets since coming back. He tells them to come in for a bowl of soup on the house, and when the weather is bad they sometimes do. They don’t claim they have allergies or kick up a stink when there’s no vanilla syrup or pumpkin spice for their lattes. They don’t throw coffee in his face or call him a fuck up.  
He listens as Reggie talks, maybe understanding one word in three, then pats him on the shoulder and wishes him a good night.  
He walks back to the cafe, down the alleyway to one side and lets himself in through the back door. He pads up the stairs to his apartment, kicking off his shoes and hanging up his jacket. He reheats some leftover pasta for dinner and eats it one handed while he goes through his mail. He watches TV and tries not to doze off on the couch.

At 5am he is woken by his alarm clock. He knocks it to the floor, swears under his breath and stumbles to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth and pulls on sweatpants and a hoodie. He grabs his wallet and heads down to the coffeeshop. He checks the breadmaker is doing its thing and takes eggs and butter out of the fridge for later. He grabs the shopping list from the counter and slips out the back door to the alley alongside the building, locking up behind him.  
He starts running. He runs through his daily affirmations, runs through his bad dreams and worse memories. He watches the sunrise stain the sky pink and blue.  
He takes a detour to Mrs Patel's. He gets mailouts from wholesalers and suppliers every week, but he buys pretty much everything he needs from Mrs P. Tiny and round with a mouth like a sailor, she has run her corner shop since the end of the last ice age (also known as the 1960’s when her family left Gujarat in search of longer working hours and a greater access to racist assholes) and sells everything from all purpose flour to colocasia leaves. She gives a delighted little squeal when he comes through the door and barrels over to pinch his cheeks and admonish him loudly for not coming by sooner. When he lost his Ma (fuckin’ lung cancer, she never touched a cigarette in her life) Mrs P had more or less adopted him, lumping him in with the endless troupe of troublesome nephews and nieces that milled around her shop. She had pitched a fit when he enlisted, but sent him care parcels of sweet tamarind pods and gujar halwa when he was off getting shot at. He had spent countless hours watching the horizon out there, cracking the papery brown pods and chewing the sticky sweet-sour fruits, leaving little piles of wrinkled black seeds on the dirt. He loved her something fierce, and harboured a suspicion that if he had ever dared to up and die out there she would bustle her way down to hell and drag him back by his ear.  
He tolerates the cheek pinching and the extremely personal questions about his (nonexistent) love life and fetches a basket. He makes his way around the shop, picking up sugar, eggs, cream and butter and a can of beyaz peynir. He dithers over the fresh produce before getting broccoli, salad leaves, a hand of bananas and some fresh ginger. Mrs P tuts at his basket and adds spring onion, fresh dill fronds and a jar of carrot pickle. He grabs milk on his way to the till and lets her haggle over payment. She takes his money but tucks a couple of samosas into his bag and harangues him about eating properly. He kisses her on the cheek, says his goodbyes and heads back to the coffee shop. 

He drops off his shopping in the kitchen and pre heats the oven before heading upstairs to shower and change. He gets dressed, ties his hair back and digs out a clean apron. He clomps down the stairs at 6am and starts work.  
He bakes yesterday's calzones and rolls and quickly makes up a batch of scones. Weighs out flour and butter, then fills the sink with water and ice and dunks his left hand into it. The prosthetic is neural linked, though the messages can get scrambled. He can sense pressure and temperature and the information doesn’t register as pain. His shoulder, where metal and wiring meets sensitive flesh and skin, aches most of the time but he tries to avoid the opioids he has been prescribed for the pain.  
Thousands spent on research and development and he uses it make quiche.  
He drains the sink and dries off his metal hand, then starts making pastry. He adds an egg yolk and dried herbs to the dough, kneads it lightly then wraps it in clingfilm and puts it in the chiller. He makes up a batch of banana muffins, half the batter gets some dulce de leche from the jar in the chiller, the other half gets honey, pumpkin seed and oatmeal for the idiots who think having a few seeds and dusty grit on top of something instantly makes it better for you. He scrapes the batter into paper cases and throws them in the oven.  
He chops his broccoli into florets and finely shreds the dill, leaving some fronds for presentation, and then fetches a fluted dish and retrieves his pastry from the chiller, rolls it out and presses it carefully into the dish. He trims the overhanging pastry around the edge with a sharp knife and puts it in the oven. He whisks up eggs and cream and crumbles in half the beyaz peynir and stirs in half the broccoli. While the pastry case blind bakes and the muffins cook he fetches yesterday's prepared veg from the chiller and makes soup. Out come the muffins and pastry case. He checks the pastry then pours in the egg mixture, topping it with more crumbled cheese and broccoli, and into the oven it goes. He washes his hands and writes everything down in the Fucking Stupid Book. 

There is no force in the universe that will persuade Natasha to work weekends, so at 7am the twins arrive.  
Wanda is silent and graceful and the only person Bucky knows who can make a flat white. He refuses to write something so fuckin’ pointless as ‘flat white’ on the menu, but people still order it and Wanda makes it beautifully because the Bastard Coffee Machine loves her.  
Pietro seems to live off boiled sweets and espressos, and buzzes around the shop like a hummingbird crammed full of E numbers. They’re from somewhere in Eastern Europe, he remembers. They both have a distant, brittle quality behind their eyes that keeps him from asking questions, but listening when either of them are inclined to talk. They work well together, and he can hide out in the kitchen and have quiet little panic attacks undisturbed.  
Bucky insists on giving them breakfast before they start working, so they drink coffee and eat toast while he sets up behind the counter, fills the display cabinet and writes out the daily specials on the board.  
The quiche comes out perfectly and he sets it aside to cool, then starts cleaning down and sterilising and the first load of the day goes into the dishwasher.

Saturdays are always hell on wheels, so Bucky stays in the kitchen as much as possible. When the coffeeshop is slammed he’ll come out and work the counter, Wanda taking the orders and Bucky making endless cappuccinos and lattes, swapping places when a flat white gets ordered. Wanda writes the coffee orders on the paper take out cups and the customer name, because seeing three adults fight over a mocha is not something he ever needs to see twice.  
He makes extra sandwiches for the lunch crowd. He knocks out a second batch of muffins (chocolate chip) when the banana honey ones sell out and makes gluten free lemon polenta cake, because the assholes come out at the weekend.  
He briefly contemplates finding the first person to use the phrase ‘Paleo Diet’ and drop kicking them into the swamps of Borneo to see how long it would take them to change their mind about refined four.  
He takes over at the end of the lunch rush so Wanda and Pietro can eat together. Painful experience dictates that Pietro must be witnessed eating at least one item of nutritional value before he’s allowed anywhere near the cakes. Painful experience also dictates that he must never learn about the jar of dulce de leche in the chiller, or where Bucky hides the 70% cocoa chocolate bars.

At 6pm he sends Wanda and Pietro home. The last hour is pretty quiet, and he can manage closing up on his own. Steve is tucked away in his corner inking a piece of work, pens scattered across the table in front of him. Bucky takes the coffee jug over and refills his coffee without asking. Steve glances up from his work long enough to offer a soft thanks when Bucky leaves him a slice of snickers cake.  
He weighs ingredients for rolls into the breadmaker and sets the timer, then cleans up in the kitchen, putting away dishes and cleaning down surfaces, and gathers together the weeks paperwork for tomorrow. He hates reconciling the accounts with the power of a thousand suns, but the alternative is hiring some shitweasel to do it for him, which isn’t going to happen.  
Steve comes up to the counter with his coffee cup. Bucky mumbles something about killing all humans, which makes him chuckle and say goodnight. Bucky is too distracted getting his receipts together to watch him leave but locks the door behind him. He cleans down the Bastard Coffee Machine and puts the remaining cakes in the chiller. He packs up the sandwiches and scones in a bag for Reggie, then wipes down the surfaces. He gathers together all the rubbish and takes it out back into the alley.  
He’s dropping the last bag into the dumpster when he hears someone shouting. 7pm on a saturday and already drunk? How fuckin’ classy.  
“Hey, Barnes, you fucking deaf?”  
He looks over, and sees Brock Rumlow. Fan-fucking-tastic. A colossal asshole from birth, Rumlow hadn’t even been on his radar until he was sixteen, when Rumlow had cornered him after school and charmingly suggested that since he was a faggot he could go ahead and suck his dick. Bucky had refused, less than politely, then more aggressively when the fucktard wouldn’t take no for an answer. Rumlow wasn’t gay, he just liked sticking it in anything that would put up a fight. Sick bastard had made his life miserable for the next year until he enlisted and got the fuck out of asshole dodge. He lets Rumlow slur his way through a few more insults before telling him to go fuck himself.  
He’s reaching for the door when Rumlow throws the first punch. It connects with the side of his head, making his ears ring and his knees turn to rubber. He drops to his hands and knees and gets a kick to the ribs for his trouble, curling into a ball and shielding his face with his left arm. The blow doesn’t fall, and he uncurls enough to see Rumlow getting dragged back by the collar of his coat.  
By Steve of all people.  
Steve is a surprisingly dirty fighter, kicking Rumlow in the knee and jabbing a punch to his throat. Rumlow throws a punch to his face and Bucky, well, things get a little blurry for Bucky after that. He’s dimly aware of Steve pulling on his shoulder, saying his name, and he stops punching. Rumlow is curled up on the ground, groaning.  
Bucky sits back on his heels, looks down at his hands. Curls his fists, his right knuckles scraped and bloody. At least he didn’t use his left hand, he thinks absently. Rumlow scrambles to his feet, spitting blood and making threats. Bucky rubs his face with his bruised hand.  
“Go home and sleep it off, Brock,” he says wearily. Rumlow stumbles off, still snarling out threats. Bucky sits for a minute and watches him weave down the street. He glances over at Steve, who looks far too pale.  
“You okay?” He asks softly. Steve flinches at the sound of his voice. His nose is bleeding. Bucky fumbles around in his pocket, finds a clean cloth and holds it out.  
“Here, you’re bleeding”.  
Steve doesn’t take it, just keeps staring at him. Bucky slowly gets to his feet. His ribs ache when he moves. He presses a hand to the forming bruise and winces.  
“You wanna come in, get cleaned up?” He asks. Steve shakes his head. “You nearby?”  
Steve nods. Bucky wraps the cloth around his knuckles. he’s pretty sure Rumlow must have been wearing a ring, because something has cut open his cheek. He can feel blood trickling down his cheek.  
“Was he,” Steve blurts out. Pauses. “What he said”.  
Bucky closes his eyes and bites back half a dozen really awful swear words. Feels his shoulders drop. He grits his teeth. Rip off the band-aid, Barnes, get this shit over with.  
“What? That I’m a fucking faggot?” He says with brittle cheer.  
Steve flinches again, and he regrets ever speaking. Regrets everything he’s done in the last fifteen fucking years.  
“Yeah,” he says quietly. He doesn’t look at Steve. He doesn’t need to look.  
They stand in silence awhile, he feels blood soaking into his collar. Dabs at his cheek.  
“Were you…” Steve hesitates. “Hitting on me?”  
Bucky wishes he could find a nice deep hole to crawl into. Preferably one that led to the earth's molten core. He nods his head, though. Steve stutters a little, starts to speak and cuts himself off. Bucky presses a thumb between his eyebrows. Of course Steve would be nice about it. He waits for Steve to stop trying to let him down gently, and lets the silence linger. Make a clean break of it, Barnes.  
“Scalini,” he says quietly.  
Steve makes a little ‘huh?’ noise. Bucky gestures across the street, still keeping his eyes on the ground.  
“Scalini. Over by the park?” Steve makes a small noise of understanding. “Good coffee, and he’s not an asshole”. Bucky takes a breath, glances up at Steve. “If you’re looking for…” He doesn’t know what else to say, so he shrugs. He offers him a brittle little smile.  
“See you around, Steve”.  
He opens the back door to the coffeeshop, steps in and closes it behind him. He locks up and pads his way silently up the stairs. He kicks off his shoes, his jacket is still downstairs, under the counter. He still has to finish cleaning up. He should go to the bathroom and see how bad his face looks, but instead he goes to the couch and lies down.  
He runs through his breathing excercises.  
He lists five things in the room he can see.  
He lists four things in the room he can feel.  
He lists three things he can hear.  
he lists two things he can smell.  
He cannot think of one good thing about himself.


	2. "I am much prettier with it"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am much prettier with it,” he solemnly informs the next customer who asks about the pastel pink butterfly on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, woo-hoo!  
> Thank you for all the comments, kudos and reads. And sorry for being such a cruel, cruel writer. It gets better, I promise!
> 
> As I should have mentioned in the last chapter, I used to run a cafe. All those gentle, sweet coffeeshop aus? No  
> No, it's nothing like that. It's cleaning, absorbing abuse from the general public, paperwork, cleaning, steam burns and did I mention the cleaning?  
> The terrible stories in this fic are all terrible experiences from real life.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Joeseph, Laura and Anna Marie, dear friends of mine in real life (names changed to protect their identity).  
> This chapter is not dedicated to mother-in-law, who also has a cameo. Can you guess who she is?!
> 
> You can find me at thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com where I repost pictures of Sebastian Stans punchably pretty face and wrestle with the rampaging hoards of plot bunnies

At 5am he gets off the couch and goes to the bathroom to survey the damage. The left side of his face is swollen and purple, the cut on his cheek scabbing over in the night. There is a clear bootprint on his ribs. It hurts to move, but he’s pretty sure nothing’s broken. He finds his prescription tramadol in the bathroom cabinet and swallows one dry. He brushes his teeth slowly and turns on the shower. He stands under the hot water and practices his breathing exercises because he’s the kind of fuck up who needs to be told how to breathe. The cut on his cheek opens up again, so he cleans it and applies pressure until the bleeding stops. He finds a plaster in the cabinet and carefully tapes it up. He dresses and heads downstairs to the shop.

He checks the breadmaker in the kitchen and fetches eggs and butter from the chiller. He limps out front and sweeps and mops the floor, wipes down the tables and cleans the bathroom. He thinks about the work he needs to get done and nothing else. The kitchen is clean but he cleans it again. He empties out the chiller and scrubs down the shelves. He catalogues the contents, checking the use by dates, then puts everything back in its place. He empties out the cupboards, scrubbing them clean and refilling them. He goes through the tubs of ingredients, throwing out the nearly empty packets of ground almonds and dried fruit. He packs everything up and puts it away. He writes everything down in his cleaning schedule.  
He empties out the breadmaker, working the dough into rolls and panini. He arranges them on baking trays and puts them to one side to prove. He makes scones and muffins, his movements mechanical, automatic. It takes him a few minutes to remember what he has made. He chops carrots, celery and onions, sweats them down in a pan and adds chopped chillies and canned tomatoes. He doesn’t realise that he’s making chilli until he has added canned chickpeas and kidney beans.  
He sets up the coffee machines, then lies down on one of the couches and stares at the ceiling until Pietro and Wanda knock on the door to be let in.  
Wanda lets out a little shriek when she sets eyes on him, and immediately starts patting his face. It takes him a moment to work out that she is checking his injuries and he tries not to wonder how she knows so much about that sort of thing. She fetches the first aid kit from behind the counter and briskly wipes antiseptic on his face and knuckles before applying a butterfly bandage to his face. She takes out a sachet of gel and rubs it onto his cheek, then on his knuckles and fingers.  
“Arnica,” she says, not that the word means anything to him.

He refuses to take the day off, so she lets him finish the morning prep, then bustles him to a corner table to do his accounts. Bucky would rather jab his eyes with hot pins that do paperwork, but Wanda sets a cup of coffee (black, filter, bless her spiky little heart) at his side and scowls at him until he opens up his laptop and starts sorting through receipts.  
The Spanish Inquisition, given a thousand years and access to the fucknuggets who thought waterboarding was a reasonable use of force could not have come up with a form of torture that even closely resembled bank reconciliation.  
He opens up his accounting software and starts going through the till receipts, cross referencing and double checking. He hates the work, but it requires all of his focus, so at least his mind doesn’t wander. When he’s finished he’s pretty sure his brains must be leaking out of his ears. He closes the laptop and rests his head on the table for a minute. Pietro pauses long enough in his rushing around to give him a quick pat on the back. He drags himself to his feet and puts the computer away behind the counter, then slopes into the kitchen to get ready for the lunchtime crowd.

Sunday lunch is busy, but without the frenetic pace of saturday. People are a little more relaxed and easygoing. Of course some people will never be satisfied. Bucky is skulking in the doorway between the kitchen and counter giving his best Death Glare to the two ‘ladies who lunch’ at a two-top near the window. Well, one of them is nice enough. They’re both in their sixties, one who has clearly spent her life being walked over and never considered, maybe, punching people in the crotch when they tried. The other clearly has done much of the walking over. Her knife was dirty (Fuck off, this ain’t the Savoy), her latte wasn’t hot enough, her broccoli was too crisp (What. The) and they didn’t serve sparkling wine. So he has parked himself in the doorway and is trying to set her on fire with his mind.  
He hears the door and glances up in time to see Joseph & Laura come in, their three year old daughter Anna Marie bursting out of her mother's arms and rushing over to look at the cakes in the display cabinet. He’s known Joseph for a year or so, they met at a VA group session. Neither of them handled group meetings all that well, but Joseph never threw a table at anyone. A few weeks later he had shown up at the coffeeshop with his girlfriend and kid. Bucky liked Laura instantly, she was quiet, gentle and patient. She never finished Joseph's sentences when he struggled to speak, or made a fuss about his tics and shaking hands. They sit down on one of the tables and Pietro goes over to say hello. Bucky rummages under the counter until he finds a pack of crayons and an activity book. He watches Anna Marie bouncing off the walls, oblivious to her mother calling her over. He comes out from behind the counter and starts walking over, but gets his sleeve pinched by Mrs My-Vegetables-Have-Texture.  
“Such a shame that you have to let any type of person in here,” she says sweetly.  
It takes Bucky a moment to process what she is saying, then even longer to stop himself from grabbing her by her pinched little features and throwing her out the window. Instead he shouts out to Anna Marie and scoops her up when she comes running over. She scrambles onto his back and wraps her arms around his neck. He gives Mrs Dirty-Cutlery a last glare and makes a passable horse noise before trotting a circuit around the coffee shop. They stop at each table and Bucky teaches Anna Marie about check backs during service. They finally reach her parents where he drops her down onto the floor and hands over the book and crayons. She dashes over to a nearby armchair and clambers onto it, scattering crayons on the table and floor in her haste.  
Bucky pulls up a chair and sits next to Laura. Joseph gestures to his face and mumbles under his breath. Bucky touches his cheek and shakes his head.  
“Looks worse than it is. Got jumped taking out the trash”. Joseph shakes his head and mumbles. “Yeah, gave as good as I got, don’t worry”.  
Joseph nods, appeased.  
They eat lunch together, and Bucky listens as Joseph grumbles about his psychiatric nurse and his medications. Anna Marie refers to her calzone as ‘fallen over pizza’ and gets impatient for chocolate cake. She finds a page of butterfly stickers in her activity book and carefully places every one of them on Bucky’s left arm, save the biggest one, which she puts on his bruised cheek and tells him that he looks much prettier with it. Laura tries to pay, but gives up when Bucky threatens to give their kid an espresso.  
Laura hugs him goodbye when they leave. Anna Marie climbs him like a tree and makes him promise to keep his stickers. He swears dutifully and gives her a chocolate muffin to take home.  
“I am much prettier with it,” he solemnly informs the next customer who asks about the pastel pink butterfly on his face.

At 5pm the coffee shop is quiet. The table in the corner is empty. Bucky isn’t surprised, but his stomach gives a nasty little twinge whenever he glances over and sees that no one is there. He feel a bitter urge to smash the thing into pieces, or dump it outside, but he leaves it be. It’s a lump of waxed pine, it hasn’t done any harm.  
He sends Wanda and Pietro home early and closes up, pulling down the blinds and locking the door. He preps for the next day and cleans down the kitchen. He puts the leftover scones and sandwiches in a bag, cleans and writes what he’s done in the cleaning folder. He shrugs on his jacket, unfastens his hair and turns out the lights. He takes the rubbish out, the alleyway is deserted.  
He walks over to the park and finds Reggie on his park bench. Reggie gives him the once over and nods.  
“Ya deck the fucker?” Reggie asks, succinct as ever. Bucky nods and Reggie smiles, claps him on the shoulder. He accepts his bag of leftovers and crams a muffin into his mouth. Bucky closes his eyes and lets his head tip back. When he opens his eyes Reggie is watching him.  
“It’s fine, Reg. I’m fine,” he says quietly. Reggie shakes his head, but doesn’t argue. He finishes his last sandwich and hums to himself, then lightly kicks Bucky’s ankle.  
“Go ‘ome, Barnes,” he mumbles. Bucky gets slowly to his feet and murmurs a soft goodnight. Reggie grunts and waves him off.  
He walks home, pads quietly up the stairs, kicking off his shoes and slipping off his jacket. He eats ramen and takes his tramadol and goes to bed.

His ribs still ache in the morning, so he doesn’t go running. He walks to Mrs Patel's and she pitches a fit at the sight of him, it takes a good fifteen minutes to calm her down. He lets himself be lectured until she gets it out of her system, then picks up his groceries. He buys cheese, milk, cream and butter, a bag of red lentils and a squash. She tuts at him and snatches away the squash, replacing it with an odd looking pumpkin with pale green skin. She also replaces the red lentils with yellow split peas, and throws in a handful of lemons. Satisfied that she has done her duty, she allows him to pay for his groceries and leaves.

He runs through the morning routine. He washes, dresses and heads downstairs. He is aware that he is coasting, that he is numb. He makes bread rolls and muffins.  
He needs to make cake, but when he tries to pick a recipe he comes up blank. He stares at his pumpkin, bought for the day's soup, for several minutes before fetching a knife and hacking off a portion. He peels, deseeds and grates up the sunny orange flesh. He mixes sugar and butter, following his recipe for carrot cake, but stirring in the golden pumpkin shreds. He adds almonds and fresh ginger, divides it into two cases and throws it in the oven.  
Natasha appears at 7am and throws a fit when she sees him.  
“It’s really not that bad,” he reassures her. It isn’t. The swelling has gone down and his eye doesn’t feel like it's going to burst. His ribs are sore, but don’t ache so bad and the bruising has settled from vivid purple to mottled blue. She cradles his face in her hands and for a moment he feels like crying. He pulls out of her reach and hides in the kitchen. He takes the pumpkin cake out of the oven and makes a cream cheese frosting. When the cake has cooled he spreads half the frosting on one layer and sandwiches the other layer on top. He spreads the rest of the frosting on top and decorates with some finely diced crystallised ginger. He puts it in the display cabinet with the rest of the cakes.  
At 9.30am he makes some noise about skipping his appointment with Dr Banner, but Natasha shoves his jacket in his hands and marches him out the door. She scowls in the doorway and makes shooing gestures at him until he skulks off down the street.

Dr Banner is a quiet, soft spoken man with rumpled features and greying hair. Bucky went through several therapists during his rehab, and Dr Banner is the only one who stuck. He doesn’t ask about the bruises, or comment on resorting to violence, but gives Bucky time to say what he feels up to saying, and doesn’t try to fill in the gaps. He says that punching an asshole was not a terrible step backwards, that sometimes you have to throw a punch. He says that it was a positive thing to be honest with the guy he liked, even if it didn’t work out. Positive steps, he says. Moving forward, he says. He gives Bucky permission to feel miserable, tells him it's okay to feel whatever he feels.  
At the end of the hour Dr Banner sends him on his way, and he takes a walk around the park before returning to the coffee shop.

The days pass in a blur. He manages to hold his tongue most of the time, but Natasha can see his frayed edges. When the shop is quiet and there's no baking to be done she pulls a stern face and tells him to go lie down. Most of the time he’ll put up a fight.  
Most of the time.  
He starts running in the mornings again and watches the sky stain pink and gold.  
The table in the corner by the window, where natural light is best, remains unoccupied. He bakes cakes and muffins. He doesn’t throw cutlery at his customers. Life goes on.

“Caramel Macchiato to go,” the woman snaps.  
Bucky glances up. Wanda and Pietro are eating lunch and he is propping up the counter. His head is still throbbing from a morning spent doing bank reconciliation.  
“Whut?” He offers in response.  
The woman rolls her eyes at him. Bucky scowls. What the fuck is a macchiato? Who the hell puts caramel in their coffee anyway? He’s pretty sure he has some toffee in the kitchen for toffee apple cake, and maybe there's some dulce de leche left in the chiller. But Caramel? The woman frowns at him and he realises that he has been staring blankly at her.  
“I said. Caramel. Macchiato. To. Go,” she says, slowly emphasising each word.  
Bucky lifts a metal hand and points to the blackboard above him where the drinks menu is written out.  
“We. Don’t. Serve. That”. He says equally slowly. Because, fuck it.  
The woman shakes her head. One of those customers. Fucking great.  
“Yes, you do,” she says firmly. Bucky shakes his head  
“No. We. Don’t”. He repeats, gesturing to the drinks menu. And really, it’s just coffee and milk. Pick your damned coffee and milk and go back to hell.  
The woman adjusts her coat and for one glorious moment Bucky thinks she’s going to demand to see the manager. She clearly decides against it and finally takes a look at the drinks menu. A queue is starting to form behind her. She starts running her mouth. It sounds like a conversation, but he knows better than to try and get a word in.  
“What is the chai tea? It’ll be powdered, won’t it. I won’t be having that. Well here is how I want you to make it”.  
She talks at great length about her chai tea. Bucky doesn’t serve powdered tea. Bucky wasn’t even aware that tea came in powdered form. He buys his masala chai tea from Mrs P and makes it with steamed milk and water. That’s how Mrs P makes it and she was born in Gujarat.  
The woman finishes her treatise on the art of chai and Bucky takes her money and writes her name on a takeout cup. He starts making the ridiculous concoction while she fiddles with her purse and stands to one side. He brings the cup over to the counter and she swoops down on him. He takes a moment to imagine throwing the whole damn cupful in her face while she takes a careful sip. She grimaces.  
“Well, it will have to do,” she sighs and takes herself over to the end of the counter where they keep sugar and sweetener sachets and starts dumping brown sugar in her ridiculous beverage.  
The next guy comes up to the counter. He looks familiar and Bucky is pretty sure he’s one of the semi regular smartasses that live to make other people's lives a misery.  
“Cappuccino, two sugars,” the guys says. Bucky nods.  
“Name?” he mutters, knocking coffee grounds out of a portafilter and refilling it, tamping down the ground coffee and securing it in place.  
“Caramel Macchiato,” Smartass says with a grin.  
Aw, fuck. Bucky scowls at him.  
“Come, on. Name?”  
“That is my name,” Smartass sniggers. “I happen to be very sensitive about it”.  
Bucky knows that as soon as he says ‘Caramel Macchiato’ Madam Chai Tea will have a fit. Smartass hands over his money and Bucky slopes back to the coffee machine and finishes the order. He slams it down on the counter.  
“Coffee for the massive asshole,” he snaps. Smartass cheerfully collects his coffee and Bucky desperately hopes he will choke on it.  
Wanda finishes her lunch and relieves Bucky from counter duty before he starts killing anyone.

By 4pm the coffeeshop is deserted, so Bucky sends Wanda and Pietro off early. He preps for the next day and does his weekly deep clean of the kitchen. He does a stocktake and writes out a shopping list. By 5pm he is kicking his heels. At 5.15pm he locks the shop up and pulls down the blinds, if people want coffee they can fuckin’ well go elsewhere. He has just finished wiping down the tables when there is a knock at the door. He throws down his dishcloth and marches over the door, ready to give whoevers knocking an earful.  
It’s Steve.  
Steve with a portfolio under his arm, peering through a gap in the blinds. For a moment Bucky falters and seriously considers going upstairs and locking himself in the bathroom. He pictures himself sat fully clothed in the bathtub and shakes himself. Get it together, Barnes. His hands are trembling when he unlocks the door. Steve hovers in the doorway, fidgeting with his portfolio. Bucky takes a step back and holds the door open.  
“You wanna come in?”  
Steve nods and steps forward, moving to the side so Bucky can close the door and lock it again.  
“Coffee?” Bucky asks. There’s still filter coffee in the jug. Steve nods.  
“Sure. I, uh, brought those designs”. He holds up the portfolio.  
The new menu ideas. Bucky had forgotten about them. He nods and waves at Steve to sit down, trying not to stare as he settles down at the corner table. He pours two cups of coffee, puts a slice of ginger cake on a plate and takes them over. Because he is an idiot. Steve smiles at the slice of cake when it’s put in front of him.  
“What happened to this one?” He asks softly.  
Bucky shrugs and sets down the coffee.  
“I like ginger cake,” he mutters.  
Steve takes a bite of cake, hums softly as he chews and swallows.  
“It’s really good. Molasses?”  
Bucky nods and tries not to stare at the crumbs in the corner of his mouth.  
Steve pulls a handful of pens out of his pocket and sets them on the table. He unzips the portfolio and pulls out a couple of sheets of paper. Bucky pulls up a chair and sits down opposite, pulling the papers closer. Steve has done a stunning job on the menu’s, with three different designs. He has kept the Pop Art theme, sticking with black and white with the odd flash of red.  
“Holy shit, Steve,” he murmurs. Steve laughs and blushes.  
Bucky holds the papers up, twisting his head around and frowning.  
“I really like the Ben-day dots, but I don’t think it works,” he says absently.  
He glances quickly at Steve, but he doesn’t look offended, just nods.  
“Not on a small scale, yeah”. He agrees.  
Bucky studies the second example and shakes his head.  
“I like the bold design, but I can’t live with a menu covered in starbursts either,” he says apologetically. Steve nods.  
“Yeah, I was just coming up with other ideas,” he taps the second sheet of paper. “This one I thought would work”.  
Bucky puts down the rejected sheet and takes a closer look at where Steve is pointing. It’s clearly inspired by warhol's screen prints from the ‘60’s, the muted soup cans rather than the technicolour images of movie stars. The design is simple but classic. He nods and flashes Steve a grin.  
“It’s perfect”.  
Steve flushes pink and gulps a mouthful of coffee. Bucky checks through the menu design and keeps his mouth firmly shut in case something stupid like ‘I missed you’ slips out. Steve eats the rest of his ginger cake and they sit in silence, glancing at each other occasionally. Bucky’s skin feels prickly, like a current is running under his skin. His palms tingle and he struggles not to fidget. Casting around for something, anything to do, he holds up the menu.  
“Is this the finished piece?”  
Steve shakes his head, swallowing his last mouthful of cake. Bucky tries not to watch his throat working.  
“Can I make a few notes?”  
Steve nods, reaching for a pen, but ends up knocking the lot onto the floor. He curses under his breath, getting down under the table to collect them up. Bucky sets the design carefully on the table, pushes back his chair and joins him on the floor, picking up the few that have rolled out of his reach. Steve keeps muttering sorry to him, and he laughs and hands over the pens. Steve sits down on the floor and covers his face with his hands.  
“Agh, I’m sorry. I’m so bad at this”.  
Bucky sits down facing him. Under his fingers Steve's face is pink.  
“Bad at what?” he asks softly, nudging Steve's foot with his own.  
When he finally speaks, Steve’s voice is muffled.  
“I’m trying to get you to have a coffee with me”.  
The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up. His heart kicks in his chest.  
“We are having coffee, Steve,” he says playfully.  
Steve shakes his head, makes little ‘argh’ noises and falls silent.  
“I’ve never done this with a guy,” he says quietly.  
Bucky grins at him. Steve peeks through his fingers, then clamps them tighter over his face.  
“This is so fucking embarrassing, Buck”. He mumbles.

Bucky is pretty sure he’s having a heart attack. Or passed out from sterilizer fumes. In a minute he’ll come round and he’ll be alone in a dimly lit coffee shop, and Steve won’t be sat opposite him, hopeful and nervous and beautiful. He plucks at Steve's sleeves until he pulls his hands down from his face. He doesn’t look at Bucky and folds his arms across his chest.  
Bucky leans forwards, presses a kiss to his mouth. A light touch, barely brushing his lips. Steve lets out a soft sound in the back of his throat, his pupils wide. He stares at Bucky’s mouth as he leans close again, closes his eyes when their lips meet.  
Bucky rests his weight on his hands, palms planted on the floor at Steve's hips. He tilts his head and flicks his tongue out, catching a crumb of cake at the corner of his mouth. Steve gasps against him and lifts a hand to his face, cupping his jaw and parting his lips. Bucky takes a lower lip between his teeth and nibbles gently, sucking and pulling until Steve flinches, then runs his tongue soothingly over the bite. He licks his way into Steve’s mouth. He tastes of ginger and molasses.  
Bucky kisses slowly, indulgently, sucking on Steve’s tongue and pulling it into his mouth, scraping it gently with his teeth. Steve cradles his face in his hands and strokes his cheeks with his thumbs, fingertip brushing his jaw. Bucky slides hands under his shirt and Steve squirms at the cool touch of metal but doesn’t pull away, only presses impossibly closer. Bucky chases the last lingering taste of molasses and spices from his mouth, nips at his tongue just to make him twitch until Steve pulls back, panting. Bucky chases his mouth, pressing soft kisses and bites to his lips and Steve whimpers.  
“Couch?” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and rough.  
Steve nods and they scramble to their feet, a tangle of limbs and mouths that cannot bear to be separated. Bucky tugs off Steve’s jacket and drops it on the floor as they stumble to the nearest couch, kissing and caressing until Bucky pushes him down unto the upholstery and straddles his lap. Steve slides his hands around his waist as Bucky nibbles his jaw, laughing as Steve tilts his head and presses messy kisses to any part of him he can reach, taking pity on him and pressing their mouths together, tongues sliding against each other as Bucky reaches down and unfastens the button of Steve’s chinos. He pulls back and looks at Steve, his lips spit-slicked and swollen.  
‘Too fast?”  
Steve shakes his head and reaches for him, pushing shaking fingers into dark hair. Bucky presses gentle kisses to his lips, pulling down his zipper and sliding a hand under the fabric, cupping the length of him. Steve gasps into his mouth as he squeezes, chokes out his name as he moves his hand in slow, steady strokes. Steve whines when he pulls his hand away, but Bucky flashes him a smile and moves back, sliding onto the floor and settling between Steve’s parted knees and hushes Steve when he starts to protest. Bucky presses kisses to Steve’s hip, his navel, the crease of his inner thigh, pulling the fabric of his trousers further down his hips. Steve throws back his head and moans when Bucky bends his head and performs a Health Code violation that would probably get the place shut down, pressing fingers into Bucky’s hair as he bobs his head, right hand gripping the base as he pulls off and presses his tongue against the frenulum. Bucky takes the crown in his mouth and sucks. Steve stutters his name and comes, gasping as Bucky swallows around him.  
Steve scrabbles at his shoulders, tugging him back onto the couch and kissing him fiercely. Bucky tangles his fingers in short blond hair and gentles the kiss, feels Steve fumble with the buttons on his jeans and pull down his zipper. Steve closes a hand around him and pulls. Bucky groans, shifting his hips and pushing up into Steve’s fist. His kisses are sloppy, his movements uncoordinated as he thrusts up, gasping into Steve's mouth as he comes.  
Bucky wipes himself off and they curl around each other, trading gentle kisses and murmurs, fingers tracing patterns on bare skin until finally straightening up their clothes and getting to their unsteady feet. Bucky holds out his hand and Steve links their fingers together and lets himself be led upstairs.

They stumble through the apartment, knocking into walls and furniture. Steve cannot countenance taking his mouth from Bucky’s skin for more than a second, pressing kisses to his jaw, to his throat. Bucky teases with his teeth, with his tongue, peeling away layers of clothing to scrape and nibble at exposed skin. He strips Steve’s shirt away, slides off his t-shirt and nuzzles against his shoulder, nips at his throat and then soothes the red skin with gentle swipes of his tongue. Bucky presses kisses up the column of Steve’s throat and gnaws at his mouth, taking the full lower lip between his teeth and sucking. Steve whines and twists fingers in his hair, pulling their mouths together. Bucky’s tongue darts between his teeth, flicking and teasing.  
They stagger into the bedroom and Bucky drags him down onto the bed. Steve follows willingly, stretching out and pressing against the full length of him, whimpering when Bucky pulls away long enough to strip off his own t-shirt. Steve runs palms over his exposed shoulders, fingers tracing the seam where prosthetic meets skin before trailing down his ribs, curling his fingers through the fine dark hairs on his chest. Bucky sucks at his throat and Steve shivers, tilting his head until their mouths meet and open. Bucky grins at him and runs his tongue across his teeth.  
“Too many clothes,” Steve gasps against that wicked tongue.  
Bucky laughs breathlessly and kisses him, deep and slow and filthy. Steve clumsily works open Bucky’s jeans, pushing them down his hips, sliding his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts. Bucky pulls away and shucks them off, moving further down the bed and deftly flicking Steve’s chinos open. Steve lifts his hips and shudders as Bucky tugs pants and underwear down to his knees, pressing kisses to his pelvis and sucking bruises on his inner thighs. He kicks off his clothes and shudders as Bucky settles between his legs, sliding hands up his hips. Bucky presses his tongue to the bruises on his thighs, licks his way up and wraps a hand around his length. Steve moans as Bucky presses his mouth to his sack, sucking gently as he twists his wrist and pulls in long, slow strokes. His left hand rubs circles on Steve's stomach and Steve groans at the touch, his hands twitching. Bucky looks up at him, grins and runs his tongue up the underside, takes the head into his mouth and sucks. He moves his left hand to wrap around the shaft and Steve moans. Bucky opens his mouth, lets the crown rest against his lips.  
“You okay, Stevie?” He teases, his breath ghosting against the head.  
“Oh god,” Steve whimpers.  
Bucky grins at him, slides metal fingers over his length.  
“Steve, you didn’t say you were into kinky shit,” he says softly, pressing his thumb to the frenulum. Steve digs his fingers into the bedding, twisting cloth in his fists.  
“‘M not,” he gasps. “It’s not the arm, it’s. It’s you”.  
Bucky rubs his thumb over the crown, delights in the gasp it causes.  
“You don’t know what it’s like to watch you. When you’re pissed at the world and prowling around”. Steve pants and squirms under his touch. “It’s not that it’s metal or.. or anything, it’s the way you carry yourself. Like you could tear through the world if it looked you wrong”.  
Bucky presses kisses along the shaft, sliding his palm across the head, the ridges in the metal grazing across the silky skin.  
“You think it’s hot?” He murmurs, pressing a smile to Steve's thigh.  
“I think you’re hot, Bucky. And smart, and beautiful, and the kindest man I’ve ever known...”  
Bucky moves quickly, crawling up Steve's body and kissing him fiercely. Steve wraps arms around his shoulders and clings to him, digging fingers into dark hair and pulling Bucky closer, whimpering into his mouth. Bucky thrusts against him and Steve shifts, aligning their lengths and sliding his hands down to the small of Bucky’s back, choking back a moan as Bucky rocks against him, gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Bucky sighs into his mouth, no longer kissing, but pressed together, shared breaths passing between each others parted lips. Bucky shudders and comes, trembling as Steve sucks marks on his skin. Bucky takes a breath, then flashes a wicked grin at Steve, sliding his left hand around his length. Steve tips his head back and groans, spilling over warm metal fingers.

Bucky fumbles around and finds his discarded t-shirt. He wipes them up and throws it into the corner. Steve curls around him and presses their foreheads together. They trade lingering kisses as Steve traces his fingers along the interconnecting metal plates of Bucky’s arm.  
“Can you feel this?” He asks softly between kisses.  
“Mm-hmm,” Bucky murmurs, pressing metal fingers to his plush lips. “Pressure sensors, temperature gauges”.  
Steve presses a kiss to to the metal fingers.  
“Can you feel that?”  
“Yeah. Light pressure”.  
Steve sucks two fingers into his mouth, withdrawing them slowly.  
“Feel that?”  
Bucky shudders and pulls Steve closer, pressing teeth to his lower lip.  
“You’re a fuckin’ menace,” he growls.

Bucky finds some clothes that will fit Steve and sends him off to have a shower. He pulls on sweatpants and an old t-shirt and heads into the kitchen. After some rummaging around in the fridge he finds some leftover soup and puts it in a pan, setting it on the stove over a medium heat. He leaves it to warm up and fetches two bowls and spoons. He gives the soup a stir and checks the seasoning, adds a pinch of salt and finds a lime and avocado in the fridge. He slices the lime and avocado in half, striking the avocado stone with the knife edge and easing it loose. He scoops out the green flesh and chops it roughly, squeezing half the lime over it. He glances up to see Steve come out of the bathroom, damp haired and barefoot. Something warm uncurls in his chest at the sight of Steve wearing his clothes. Steve pads over to him and rests a chin on his shoulder, presses a kiss to his cheek.  
“What terrible thing happened to this?” He asks softly.  
“It’s pozole,” he answers with a grin, scooping the soup into the bowls and topping with the avocado and a squeeze of the remaining lime half.  
“Puz..?”  
Bucky rolls his eyes and pushes one of the bowls into Steve's hands.  
“Soup,” he says, handing over a spoon.  
They sit facing each other on the couch, their legs tangling together. Steve makes happy little noises while he eats and Bucky does not blush at the sounds.  
“Can I ask you something?” Steve says quietly.  
Bucky nods, spooning up a mouthful of avocado and corn.  
“How did you. I mean”. Steve pauses. “You don’t look the army type”.  
Steve watches as he chews and swallows.  
“When Ma died I didn’t take it so well,” Bucky pokes at a navy bean in his bowl. “If it had a dick and a pulse I was all over it. I was kind of a skank”.  
Steve snorts and covers his mouth. He shakes his head at Bucky, who shrugs.  
“Maybe not that bad, but enough to get me the wrong kind of attention”.  
“The guy last weekend?” Steve asks softly. Bucky nods.  
“I could see the rest of my life laid out before me, y’know. It was a chance to. I don’t know. Start again”. He pokes at the remains of his soup. “I was good at it. They made me a sergeant. I was…” He hesitates. “Then… Boom”. He says the word flatly, scrapes up a spoonful of beans and chews slowly. Steve doesn’t ask questions or push, just sits quietly, the heel of his bare foot resting against Bucky's hip.  
“There was this big inquest. Insurgents were getting arms under the table from this weapons manufacturer. The guy who owned the company was this billionaire genius type”. He sets his bowl on the floor, rests his hands on Steve’s feet. “He had a meltdown. Shut the whole business down and started making prosthetics”. He slides his left hand up Steve's ankle, metal fingers nudging under the hem of his sweatpants. “This is second gen. Sixth gen are are coming out now. Impressive. Can hardly tell they’re prosthetic”. He watches Steve set his bowl on the floor. “They keep offering me an upgrade,” he slides his fingers up, curving them around the taut muscle of his calf. “But I’m kind of used to this one”.  
Steve tips his head forward, pulling his feet out of Bucky’s grasp. He sits up, placing his hands on Bucky’s waist and tugging him down to lie flat on the couch. He crawls over him, knees bracketing his hips and palms pressed to his shoulders. Bucky slides hands under Steve’s shirt and tugs him closer.  
“Perfect,” Steve murmurs against his mouth as he grins and bites at his lips. Whatever else he had planned to say lost in the press of mouths and the slide of tongues.

Bucky wakes up shortly before 6am and eases himself out of bed. He murmurs to Steve to go back to sleep and takes a shower. He puts on clean jeans and, after a moment's pause, a short sleeved t-shirt. He finds a scrap of paper, writes a note for Steve and heads downstairs.  
He collects up The portfolio and pens from last night and tucks them safely away behind the counter. He heads into the kitchen to wash his hands and sterilize everything. He gets his tub of ingredients out and ponders for a minute before measuring out dates, milk and water in a small pan and putting it on the stove to simmer. He preheats the oven and starts on bread rolls, scones and muffins. When the dates have absorbed all the liquid and cooked down to a mush he removes the pan from the heat and stirs in butter and sugar. He weighs out flour in a bowl and pours in the date mixture, combining everything and scraping it into a cake tin. He puts it in the oven and gets started on the day's soup.

Natasha arrives at 7am. He lets her in and locks up behind her.  
“You feeling up to a good morning hug?” She asks him.  
He responds by wrapping his arms around her waist and swinging her in a circle. She lets out a shriek and throws her arms around him, giggling as he sets her back down on the ground.  
He pours them both a coffee while she takes off her jacket and puts on her apron, twisting her hair up and pinning it in place with a spare pencil. Bucky sets the freshly made sticky toffee cake in the display cabinet.  
“So what’s got you in a good mood?” She asks. Bucky slides her coffee across the counter and says nothing, heading back into the kitchen to finish the morning prep.  
Natasha glances up when she hears footsteps on the stairs and doesn’t hide her grin when Steve appears.  
“Hey, Steve!”  
Steve blushes and rubs his neck. There is a trail of marks running from just under his ear and disappearing under the collar of his t-shirt.  
“Hey, Nat,” he mumbles.  
Bucky appears in the doorway and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Steve's chinos.  
“Not a fuckin’ word,” he growls at Natasha, dragging Steve into the kitchen.  
Bucky pushes Steve against the tiled wall and kisses him, flicking his tongue across his teeth. Steve whimpers and threads fingers in his hair, tilting his head and parting his lips. He pushes his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, whimpering as he sucks and bites. Whining when he pulls away.  
“Hi,” he says breathlessly as Bucky peppers soft kisses over his lip.  
“Hey,” Bucky whispers. “Didn’t know how you were with, y’know, in public…”  
Steve chuckles and strokes thumbs across Bucky’s cheeks.  
“If we do this in public we’ll get arrested”.  
Steve smiles and Bucky reluctantly lets go of him, nudging him out to the shop front and fetching his portfolio from behind the counter. Steve takes it with a blush and heads over to his table in the corner.  
Bucky makes him toast, setting it on a plate with a knife and a packet each of butter and jam. He fetches a cup of coffee and takes them over to Steve’s table. He sets them down and Steve tangles his fingers in the straps of his apron and tugs him down for a kiss.  
“The public thing? I’m okay with it,” he murmurs into Bucky’s mouth. He lets go and grins as Bucky straightens up, his expression slightly dazed.

The season turns and with winter comes the cold weather. Steve shows up at the coffeeshop with a rattle in his chest that he fails to pass off as a cold, Bucky does his best not to freak out.  
After a week on Bucky’s couch being alternately cosseted with spiced tea from Mrs P and tormented with Bucky’s viciously spicy Hot Sour soup Steve is persuaded to give up his shitty apartment and move in permanently. Most of his stuff is already in the closet anyway, frayed khakis and old band t-shirts tangled up together in the laundry pile. Art history books and sci-fi paperbacks clutter up the shelves.  
The living room is already cluttered with fibre tip pens and watercolour pencils, but most of Steve’s work is done in the coffeeshop. The light is better there, and there is no shortage of coffee and stolen kisses.  
Sometimes Steve will get out his sharpies and draw on Bucky’s arm. Thick black lines where the plates connect, or coloured squares. Sometimes he will draw bold Op Art lines or Ben-Day dots. He presses his lips to the cool metal palm and smiles as skin warmed fingers brush his cheek, trace across his lower lip.


End file.
